Mourn With Me
by TrustTheCloak
Summary: Death... is the most difficult for the ones that are left behind. *Takes place after Tournament of Gorlan.*


Halt insisted on being the one to tell Crowley.

"Pritchard..." the Hibernian's voice cracked. "Pritchard is dead. Morgarath killed him when he escaped."

Crowley, who had been a flurry of movement as he worked at his desk -as the new Commandant of a still scattered, newly reformed Ranger Corps, Crowley seemed to always be in a hurry- abruptly stilled, his quill slipping from his hand. "He - but... _what_?" Those hazel eyes were shiny and filled to the brim. Halt could feel his own eyes fill, and he shook his head, unable to get the words out a second time.

Crowley unsteadily got to his feet, a choked sound in the back of his throat escaping despite the hand that was over his mouth. Tears were flowing now, and as he fumbled for the door handle, Crowley managed to bite out, "Just... I can't..." before he was gone.

Halt crumpled into a chair for a moment, forehead in his hands as quiet sobs tore through him. Pritchard.

They had just gotten him back.

Halt took a few gasping breaths, trying to compose himself. He had to find Crowley. Crowley, who had already been running himself into the ground before he had received the news that his mentor had been murdered. Truthfully, Halt wanted little more than to stumble to his quarters and sleep for a week, somehow waking up in a reality where Pritchard was still alive and well.

However, this was their reality, and finding his grieving friend, his _brother_, gave Halt a sense of purpose that he could not ignore. With great effort, the young Hibernian staggered to his feet.

* * *

Halt found Crowley sitting at the edge of the duck pond, mechanically throwing bread into the pond as the poultry greedily swarmed the pieces. For a moment, Halt watched his friend from a distance, noting his hunched shoulders and dull expression. Crowley paused for a moment, his expression twisting with misery before he furiously threw the rest of the loaf into the water, the flock of ducks scattering at the splash. Drawing his knees up, Crowley buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

Halt slowly approached, lowering himself beside his friend so that their shoulders were brushing. Crowley exhaled, recognizing Halt's steps, but didn't lift his head. Halt was quiet for a moment, letting Crowley lean against him, before he roughly cleared his throat.

"He talked about you, you know. In Dun Kilty."

Crowley lifted his tear stained face, managing to croak out, "He did?"

Clearing the burning ache out once more, Halt pressed on. "He did. Went on about how smart you were, the effort that you always put into things, how never gave up when you set your mind to something... how you had a temper that would put an angry gander to shame." The corner of Crowley's mouth twitched, and Halt continued. "Though, he never did mention your shrilling capabilities. For good reason, as I unfortunately found out."

Crowley finally let out a watery laugh. "You're not refined enough to appreciate my whistling."

"Unrefined enough, perhaps," Halt answered, before he gave a deep sigh. "Pritchard loved you, Crowley."

Crowley nodded, and when he answered, it was in a voice that was quiet but sure. "I know. He loved you, too."

The younger Ranger nodded as well - he knew. He could see it in everything Pritchard did; the quiet praise, the parental touches, the gentle teasing. Pritchard had loved them as any parent loves their sons.

They were both quiet a moment, Crowley picking up and inspecting a rock before carelessly throwing it into the pond. "Why Pritchard, Halt?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "We won. We were supposed to be safe, at least for a while. What... what even is the point of all this, if we can't even keep Pritchard alive?"

"The point? To get Araluen functional again. To get the Corps back to how it was - to how Pritchard remembered it."

Crowley fought back a sob, tears running again. "I wanted him to see it," his voice was the barest whisper, and so _sad _that Halt's heart splintered.

"He did see it," Halt murmured, squeezing his friend's shoulder. "We... _you, _got it started. He was able to see that, and know that the Corps is in good hands."

Crowley's sagging shoulders lifted slightly, and he took a deep breath, letting Halt's words absorb. Heavily pushing himself up, the Commandant offered Halt a hand. "In that case, we'd better make sure that we keep it in the right direction. For Pritchard."

Halt accepted Crowley's hand.

"For Pritchard."

* * *

**I love reviews. This was an interesting piece for me to explore - I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, despite the sad topic.**

**-TrustTheCloak**


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